


Consanguinuity

by Satan In Purple (purple_satan)



Series: My People Were Fair, With Sky in Their Hair [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: But not what you are probably thinking, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, I am here to redeem myself, M/M, Multi, Or should I say children now, POV Child, Reylux child, Silas Malavai Hux, Star Wars TFA: The Next Generation, Unintentional verbosity involving the Emperor's Clothing, beautiful space child Silas, emperor Hux AU, past reylux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7462017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_satan/pseuds/Satan%20In%20Purple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is a different legacy. One he knows is equally as important as his own. The Emperor’s sister, <i>his sister.</i></p><p>She will be a force of nature of her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consanguinuity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aicosu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aicosu/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Veridis Quo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7269001) by [Aicosu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aicosu/pseuds/Aicosu). 



> Please read the tags and the fics preceding this, "Veridis Quo" by Aicosu, followed by "Ascendancy" (the first part of this series). This is most definitely not a stand-alone and will not make any sense without the other two.

\--

 

It's a bright and sunny day, the second year of his reign as Emperor, when his mother announces she is with child.

A girl.

Silas Malavai Hux II, Emperor of the known galaxy, is sixteen years old. A full life ahead of him, his mother tells him about the barely formed cluster of cells in her body that will coalesce and become his half-sister. Then his life changes completely, tilts on its very axis at that moment in time.

It’s the closest to time standing still he has felt since his father died.

She tells him that the child is biological, hers and Lord Ren’s, she doesn’t have succession to the throne. That they will not love him any less now that they have a daughter of their own, Silas is still no less special.

(Wise beyond his years, Silas is neither jealous when his mother tells him, nor does he worry about succession.)

Instead he ponders chubby fists and cheeks, the shade of smooth freckled skin she will inherit. The color her hair will be once it's long like his mother’s.

He knows this girl, his sister, will not be fire like he is.

Will she be sunlight, dirt, green gardens? Or shadows, smoke and the night sky?

Will she look anything like him? With Lord Ren’s and his mother’s genes, but without his father’s, he does not think so. Will she will know the force as her parents do, as he does? She may be stronger in it than the rest of them with her lineage. Will she become a politician, a warrior, or something else entirely with the choices he never had?

So many questions.

_Will she like him?_

 

He sees a vision of a girl, inky hair in three buns, half-heartedly chased by Lord Ren around the marble dais as she toddles away giggling, screaming for her brother.

_Brother, brother! Silas!_

She looks up at him. Wide brown eyes, freckles dotting her nose already, giving him a toothy grin. He’s smiling as she reaches out with the chubby, grasping fingers of a toddler for him to pick her up, but there's a tightness around his eyes he has yet to develop yet. It will with time.

He’s older, his fiery auburn hair long and curly at his nape, skimming his shoulders. He’s grown into the features he inherited from Lord Ren, his big ears and the long line of his nose. The sharpness of his father's cheeks are a contrast to the softness of his generous lips and the paleness of his eyes.

He still looks much like his father’s son, and his sister like their mother, Lady Rey.

He picks her up and twirls her around, delighting in her shrieks, as an unchanged Lord Ren watches over them both to the side.

Whispering nonsense in her tiny ear, he imagines her growing older. How he could teach her galactic politics, practice saber forms with her, dress her up like a doll in the most tasteful of Nabooian fashion. How they could watch thunderstorms together, and he could tell her about the man that could have also been her father, Emperor Brendol Armitage Hux II.

_Sister._

He already loves her.

 

His mother gives him a curious look, reaching up on her tiptoes to press her forehead against his, an affectionate gesture they’ve maintained throughout the years. He does not know why tears then silently fall down her cheeks, as she presses into him. Fat salty drops splashing down her face, onto her cowl and the front of his tunic. He presses his thumbs to her cheeks, gently wiping them away, holding her closer.

“Mother--”

He clears away the thought of his sister by his side for his reign, his most trusted confidant. Gently skimming his mother’s mind, he finds it shielded, nothing but an inky black void ready to swallow him whole. There’s a tiny blue spark of life in the middle of it she can’t hide, though, pulsing like a beacon that calls to him, beckons.

_Sister._

His mother shakes her head, pressing her cheek against the fabric of his white tunic, inhaling shakily. Her fingers wind themselves into the heavy plush of his crimson cape, gripping the fabric tightly in shaking hands. He wraps his arms tightly around her, engulfing her in the yards of excess fabric draped upon him, and his much larger frame.

He knows she hates the Emperor’s full regalia, hates how the crimson, the white silk weave and gold trim still remind her of loss every time she sees him wearing them. How the sweep of the cape reminds her of fading memories of another man, how she knows firsthand that the golden laurels of the crown bite into skin if you press against them too hard, and how the excess accoutrements on the collar, the waist, make clinking noises as the wearer walks.

It once reminded her of indulgence, vanity, too much when his father had it made for him.

Now it reminds her of loss.

Even today, a celebration of the life inside of her, is no exception to him having to wear it. Because they must announce it soon, the court is already buzzing with whispers. The child of Lord and Lady Ren, half-sibling to the Emperor, is already quickly becoming galactic news.

He waits for his mother to compose herself, revels in the unusual closeness that reminds him of when he was a young boy, a time when all of his parents held him close freely and often. He runs his fingers through his mother’s long, wavy hair that’s in a simple style for the day, neither her old hairstyle nor the more intricate plaits the servants of the court often weave her hair into.

He’s hoping for it being a soothing gesture, though he’s not sure. His age has made it hard for him to take solace in his parent’s quick touches, the perfunctory affection given to a child too old to be held anymore. He tries his best to come somewhere in the proximity of what he would want.

“We’ve been so selfish,” she says, stiffening in his arms once realizing how close they are. “I never realized you were such a lonely boy.”

She looks up at him, eyes wet, her lashes dark and clumping together. He has to crane his neck down to look her in the eyes, dwarfing her in comparison. Like Lord Ren.

“Promise me then, Silas. Keep her safe.”

“I give you my oath,” he swears, easily tumbling from his lips. He’s untangling his hands from his mother’s hair, her small hands from his cloak to clasp them between his own larger ones as he bows, deeply. “As emperor, _as your son_ , I will do everything in my power to keep your daughter safe. She will want for nothing, be anything she desires, will always have my protection.”

It’s a romantic notion, one that he knows is ultimately false, as he rubs his gloved thumbs on the backs of her shaking, bird-boned hands. Loved ones have died in this very room before their eyes. They’re standing where blood was shed. And yet, he makes this oath to his mother willingly for the four of them.

Because they cannot go back to three ever again.

“All I ever wanted growing up was a family,” his mother sighs, stepping back from him. He does not miss how she looks him up and down, the way her face changes as she thinks of a ghost, of the man he looks far too much like as he gets older. “Now all I ever do is constantly worry after creating one I will lose it.”

“It wasn’t his choice to leave us.”

She smiles a brittle smile. Her reply is soft, wistful. “No, it wasn’t. He left far too much unfinished.”

It's a strange, practiced thing to watch, the way his mother smiles now. A smile easily broken by sudden noise or movement, like a startled bird too clumsy to fly properly.

“I was so young and foolish when I agreed to the plan to put him on the throne, you know? Your father.” She elaborates unnecessarily. “We were all buying for time, living in fear Snoke would kill him once he outlived his usefulness or decided Kylo and I were too emotionally compromised. Snoke probably would have killed him. So we killed Snoke first. It wasn’t for the Empire or the Order, we-- Kylo and I, we did it for your father.”

She shakes her head. “I thought that meant we’d get some kind of finally deserved peace, righting all the wrongs we collectively did, helping unify the empire. Have a child as our legacy, _you,_ and he would be loved by everyone. But what your father wanted most --other than you--, giving him the throne, it killed him in the end.”

“I never wanted this for you, Silas. Do you remember how your d--” She stops herself, stumbling over the word. “How _Kylo_ and I fought over you taking the throne?”

He nods, remembering running his fingers over the smooth worn metal surfaces of the coins in his pocket, a little future Emperor hiding in a dark closet. Lord Ren and his mother yelled until his head hurt and he absolutely hated it. Hated how his father was gone, hated the future ahead of him. Hated the throne for taking him away. Hated how meek he was.

Because a Hux would not be cowering in a dark closet, a Hux would make them stop. He hated that he was weak and insignificant, that he was not yet a Hux like he is now.

It’s hard for him to believe that it was only five years ago, it may as well have been a lifetime.

“Kylo and I won’t always be around to protect her. I’m trusting you to keep her safe.”

_I want you to know that we’re coming back. And if we don’t, somehow, that we meant to. That we always mean to. Even if we die--_

He remembers his mother’s rushed words as a boy, every time she went off on a mission with Lord Ren, every time she left him with his father. Every time they left his side.

He wonders if it is his mother’s habit to always be a bit preoccupied with death like he is.

The way how years later he has yet to stop seeing red, red, _red_ everywhere. It’s in the corner of his vision, creeping in the background, until everything is awash when he closes his eyes. Its there when he presses his fists to his eyes to try to make it stop, but it doesn’t. There when he washes his hands until they are raw and he sees the red between his fingers, staining his palms. His hands blister pink under the hot water, little rivulets well up in cracks that form from the dryness, but no matter what he does, the red just won’t go _away._

Maybe instead of the blood of the Emperor, her husband-- his father-- it’s the sands of Jakku she can’t get from underneath her nails. The past of grit and grime as she scrubbed until her fingers bled just to keep from starving that is stuck in her own nail beds, the very fiber of her being. That fear of not wanting to leave loved ones behind waiting for her, as she waited.

Why she taught him to count exits and escape pods, how to always reach her.

He wishes he could reach out again for her now.

Instead his thumb brushes over one of the bits of metal on his uniform and Silas wishes for the coins he left in his room back in his pocket. His mother kisses his forehead quickly before excusing herself from him, not once looking back. 

 

She leaves him in the throne room, a flurry of black fabrics swishing behind her like dark storm clouds on the move in the sky, carefully circling around the throne, giving a wide berth to where his father fell from grace.

 

\--

 

It’s a stormy day when Padme Elana Organa is born, and Silas takes it as a portent of good things to come, his father raining blessings on their family from wherever he is.

They name her after nobility, rather than usurpers. Silas is delighted to learn the history behind each name, as his father tells him bits of stories from his lineage that cannot be found on datapads or the holonet.

It’s a sound birth, both mother and daughter recovering in bed as he makes his way from their room to his throne. Padme is of healthy weight, a shock of dark hair on her skull, bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks. A perfect newborn. Vocal in ways Silas was, she cries incessantly until cradled in her mother’s arms, both of her parents give each other breathless grins as three becomes four again.

Not the same, but something missing has been fitted back into place. Rey smiles at her daughter, then at Kylo, and it finally reaches her eyes like when he was younger, crinkling them at the corners.

The storm whips violently against the transparisteel covered openings of the room, and his sister wails at the frightening outside noises. Rey murmurs soothing nonsense in her ear, as Kylo brushes sweaty locks of hair from her forehead. He places a kiss on the crown of his daughter’s head, and looks at her-- looks at them-- the same way he did when Silas took the throne, completely and utterly besotted, devoted.

He wonders if they looked at him like that when he was born. If they smiled widely when they looked into his pale eyes when he came into the world, naked and mewling like his sister is now.

It’s one of the only times he is ever jealous of his sister.

 

\--

 

Silas rolls into the throne room like a thunderstorm, cape a billowing white wind behind him. His footsteps echo like thunder in the vastness of the silent room, his smile like a lightning strike. His voice is steady like rainfall, as he speaks to the people gathered before him.

Standing tall in his full regalia, proudly, he’s red and gold and white.

A Hux.

He feels the phantom touch of a hand on his shoulder when he announces his sister’s birth to the galaxy and wishes his father was there. He wishes he could see her chubby cheeks and blue eyes that will turn to brown. How she will become the spitting image of her mother one day, except for the paler skin and darker hair from her father.

Baby Padme is not a Hux, will never be a Hux. She is a different legacy. One he knows is equally as important as his own. The Emperor’s sister, _his sister._

Not a Ren.

Not a Skywalker.

Not a Hux.

 

She will be a force of nature of her own.

**Author's Note:**

> SO I BET YOU GUYS WERENT EXPECTING THAT FROM SATAN. hahaha please don't hate me, love me <3 Silas is not mine, just borrowed from Aicosu & Brittlelimbs.
> 
> ayyyyyyyyyy so my dudes, there is also a [spotify soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/12164898658/playlist/53OZNjThV1T2Yont3QW9Jm) for this and _Ascendancy_ because i am obsessed with setting the right mood for reading/writing. check it out.
> 
> lastly, for more plotting and possibilities of beautiful space child silas hux showing up in the future, follow me on tumblr @ [purple-satan-fic ](http://purple-satan-fic.tumblr.com)!


End file.
